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“The uniform needs to eat. You want to walk, it’s your choice.” She nipped the bottle of water as it popped out of the serving slot. “Keep away from the coffee,” she said conversationally. “If you want to live.”

He dropped into the seat across from her. She wasn’t surprised when he ordered bottled brew.

“Your girlfriend tell you about our conversation yesterday?”

“You show some respect when you talk about Clarissa. She’s a lady. Your type don’t recognize a lady.”

“My type recognizes wrong cops, conspirators, killers, fanatics.” Watching his face, she took a pull of her water. “I don’t care how their skin stretches.”

“I want you off her back. I’m giving you one warning on it.”

She leaned forward. “You threatening me, Dwier? Are you intimating that if I continue to pursue the line of investigation that involves Clarissa Price, you may attempt to cause me physical harm?”

“What, are you wired?”

“No, I’m not wired. I just want to be real clear on the nature of your warning. That way, I won’t be kicking your sorry ass across this sticky floor, out the door, and across the street due to a miscommunication.”

“You think you’re some badass, don’t you? You homicide cops all think you’re so fucking important. Elite or some shit. You come out on the street and wade through the garbage awhile, you pick up the pieces of some kid who’s been raped and beat up, or drag through the puke of some asshole teenager who’s OD’d on Jazz he got from some vulture working the school yards. See how long you’re such a badass.”

She felt some sympathy, a sliver of it scraping over her for a cop who’d seen more than he could handle. But there was the line again, the line that could only be moved so far before it fell off the edge.

“Is that why you’re part of this, Dwier? Just couldn’t handle taking all the steps, seeing some of those steps bust out from under you? Is that why you decided to be judge, jury, and executioner?”

Her fries slid out, and she ignored them. His bottle popped seconds later. He snatched it up, twisted the top with the violence of a man who wished it was a human neck.

“I want you off Clarissa’s back.”

“You’re repeating yourself. Tell me something new.”

He took two deep swallows from the bottle. “I’m not saying I got anything to tell you. But if I did, I’d need a deal.”

“Can’t deal without the cards.”

“Don’t try to hose me.” He snorted at her, and she lost even that sliver of sympathy.

He wasn’t just a cop who’d broken under the pressure. He was one who’d puffed up on it and filled himself to bursting—like the thin skin of a balloon—bulging with arrogance, with righteousness.

“I’m a badge. I know how this works. If I had anything to say pertaining to the recent homicides, I’d need immunity for Clarissa and myself regarding any possible involvement.”

“Immunity.”

She leaned back, carefully selected a french fry, studied it. “You just want me to wipe your slate? Seven dead, one a cop, and you want a free ride for yourself and your lady? Just how do you expect me to pull that off for you, Dwier?”

“You’ll pull it off. You’ve got weight.”

“Let’s put it this way.” She drenched the fries with salt. They needed help desperately. “Why do you think I’d use the weight you think I have to help you skate on this?”

“You want the bust. I know your type. The bust comes first. Keep your cases-cleared percentage high. You figure they’ll pin another fucking medal on you.”

“You don’t know me.” Her voice was low and lethal. “You want a picture in your head, Dwier? How about this one? A sixteen-year-old girl, cut into ribbons, her blood all over the walls following the trail where she’d run trying to get away from a man who was driven insane by a group of people who decided he should die. Her name was Hannah Wade. She was a stupid kid with a bad attitude who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Kevin Halloway, a solid young cop just doing his job. How do the people pushing your buttons rate that in their list of percentages. An acceptable loss?”

“Clarissa’s sick over that girl. She’s busted to pieces over it. Didn’t sleep a wink all night.”

Eve felt bile rush into her throat, washed it back with water. “Remorse will weigh in with the prosecutor. Maybe you were misled. Maybe both of you were misled by the people in charge of Purity. You were just looking for a way to protect the kids on your watch.”

“Yeah.” He drank, keyed in the menu for a second bottle. “If that were the case, it would go toward immunity. The fact, if we did know something relevant, we were willing to give it up—voluntarily.”

You puke, she thought, her face blank as a wiped slate. “You know I can’t guarantee immunity. That decision doesn’t come from me. I can only request it.”


Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery